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Almost? Almost.





There’s a moment between dreaming and waking when the world softens—kind of like butter left too long on the counter. That’s where I found myself, staring at the ceiling fan, counting its revolutions like it held some cosmic secret. “Should I text you?” I asked into the void of my mind. Somewhere, I was sure you heard it. You always did.

“Why are you like this?” your voice echoed back, amused and familiar.


I pictured you in some cozy café, lazily stirring coffee that didn’t need stirring.


“It’s a gift,” I replied silently.


We’d always had this strange way of talking without speaking—like our thoughts were on the same invisible string. It made everything harder and easier all at once. Real conversations had rules, timing, consequences. This? This was our glitch in the matrix where things could stay almost perfect.


“I wish we could go grocery shopping together,” I thought suddenly, standing in the middle of the cereal aisle surrounded by strangers making life-altering decisions about granola.


There was a beat of silence. Then you replied, “Why? So you can narrate the emotional trauma of the tomatoes again?”


“Obviously. They deserve justice.”


“You’re impossible.”


“And yet you’d still argue with me over which avocado is soulmate material.”


“Okay, that was valid. You can’t just grab the first one and hope for the best.”


I snorted, earning a side-eye from a guy with an armful of organic kombucha. If anyone ever asked, I’d say it was the nostalgia making me ridiculous. But really, it was you.


The week blurred past. I spent Wednesday refreshing my inbox like I was waiting for some cosmic email titled Here’s Your Life’s Purpose. It didn’t come. Instead, I burned my toast while I pondered the meaning of existence, crumbs littering the counter like a crime scene.


“I wish you could come over,” I thought. “We could eat bad toast and call it artisanal.”


“Or throw it at pigeons and call it performance art,” you added.


I smiled at the absurdity of it. You always knew how to make the small things feel like a movie montage.


“Do you think people out there are just… happy?” I asked. “Like, really, truly happy without overthinking every step?”


“They’re probably not talking to someone telepathically while ruining breakfast.”


“Touché.”


The next morning, I spilled coffee down my favorite shirt and sent an email signed Beast regards instead of Best regards. It was as though the universe had assigned Thursday as the official Humiliate HER Day.



















“Beast regards?” you laughed in my head. “What are you, some kind of cryptid?”


“I’m more like a minor inconvenience spirit,” I muttered. “I haunt inboxes with awkward emails and vague dread.”


“Be honest, though. Would you haunt me?”


The way you asked it made my chest ache in that bittersweet way.


“I’m already haunting you,” I said softly.


You didn’t answer right away. Instead, I felt the hum of you—not words, but warmth, like a memory trying to reach out.


By Friday, I was on my third cup of coffee and staring out the window at a city that felt more like a background than a place.


“I wish we could just drive somewhere,” I thought. “No maps. No plan. Just drive until we find something strange and beautiful.”


Your voice was quieter this time, but no less certain. “I’d bring the worst playlists and snacks that melt all over the seats.”


“And I’d judge you for it, but secretly love it.”


You paused, like you wanted to say something bigger, but it never came. It was the same dance we’d been doing for an eternity—half-steps around what we couldn’t quite name.


On Saturday morning, I made coffee and sat by the window, letting the steam curl around me like a secret. The city was quiet, softer, like it was holding its breath.


“I wish you were here,” I whispered, the thought barely more than a sigh.


“Me too,” you said. And for once, I could feel the weight of it.


The world outside blurred into light and shadow as I closed my eyes.


“Do you think… in another version of us, we got it right?” I asked.


“Maybe,” you replied, your voice as soft as the morning sun. “Or maybe we’re the version someone else is wishing for.”


That thought settled over me like a blanket—too heavy, too warm, but comforting all the same.


I smiled into my coffee. “See you in the next life?”


“Only if there’s coffee,” you answered, like always.


And for once, I didn’t wish for anything more. The quiet didn’t feel like the end. It felt like home.
















Love,
S 

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